Say Goodnight
by Kimagure
Summary: A different look on how Sirius came across Neville's cheat sheet of passwords into Gryffindor tower in PoA. ^-^ **Finished**
1. Default Chapter

I like Harry Potter, but it isn't mine. I like 3 Doors Down, but once again…not mine. This fic bit? Sadly, mine. I just felt like posting something. This takes place in the middle of year three. Dedicated to Kymaera just for kicks. ^-^ And this isn't related at all to the other HP fic I've got up, but I suppose there are some similarities. (*blinks innocently* What?! I like Neville and I like Sirius…^-^;;;) 

  


___He lies awake and he wonder_

_Why can't that be me_

_Cause in his life is filled with _

_All these good intentions_

_He's left a lot of things that he'd_

_Rather not mention right now_

_But just before he says good night_

_He looks up with a little smile at me and he says_

_If I could be like that_

_I would give anything_

_Just to live one day in those shoes_

_If I could be like that_

_What would I do?"_

__

Be Like That—3 Doors Down

Neville Longbottom moved quietly through the boys' sleeping quarters and towards the Gryffindor common room. Considering the late hour, he doubted that anyone heard his quiet curse when he stubbed his toe against the corner of his bed or the muffled thud he'd made when he'd stumbled over the edge of his overly long pajama pants. His knee still smarted from where he'd landed on the hard floor with it. 

But if anything, he'd learned long ago that Gryffindor tended to be deep sleepers. No one had ever woken up yet to his blind stumblings in the dark. Or if they had, they hadn't been concerned enough to come and see what it was that he was up to so late at night. He supposed they suspected it was normal behavior for him, considering the fact that this nightly habit of his had started the first night he'd spent here. 

It wasn't that they were unfeeling. Neville had seen repeated examples of how the kids in this house could and would band together for someone. It wasn't that they were cold, you only had to look at the twins or Dean and Seamus, or Harry, Ron, and Hermione to know that there were close friendships in this house. 

He reached the doorway leading out of the room and he paused. Some nights, he'd stay up, listening to everyone fall asleep, comforted by the fact that he was surrounded by other people. That he wasn't alone. And then on other nights like this one, he'd stay up listening to the light snores and deep breathing and realize that even though he was surrounded by people, he would always be very much alone. 

Well, the last thing he wanted tonight was to stay in here listening to everyone sleep their own pleasant, peaceful dreams. Not that he wished them ill, he was around all of them too much to not have come to like them. They were good people, decent people. He imagined that when they grew up all the way, they'd be a lot like his parents had once been. Respectable. 

And him? Well, he thought wryly, he'd always be something of a joke. 

He went to sit down in front of the fire in the common room, but as he'd crouched down, his knee protested. And something inside him agreed with his knee. It didn't feel right to sit in the common room as if he belonged there. Fact of the matter was that this was one of those nights where Neville didn't even want to ~be~ in Gryffindor tower. It was stifling, and a kind of restlessness kicked at his heart, quickening the beat and reminding him of the moments where Great Uncle Algie had tried to smother him into working magic. 

He needed out. And he needed out now. 

Without stopping to give it more than a second's thought, Neville crept out of the Gryffindor tower. 

Standing out in front of the portrait, he let out a mild sigh of relief as his heart calmed to a more regular beat. The hall was silent. Which might have had a tranquil quality, Neville decided, if it hadn't been so bloody dark and deserted. There was no sign of Peeves or of Nearly Headless Nick, and even Sir Cadogan was quiet. Usually the knight insisted on giving Neville small pep talks about courage and bravery. 

As if he needed any more reminder of just how out of place he was. 

Neville gave a sigh and turned to get a peak at the knight. It came as no great surprise to see the armored fellow asleep beside his fat pony. And really, Neville didn't look forward to hearing what Sir Cadogan had to say when he woke him up to be let back in. 

To be let back in…

Abruptly Neville patted the pockets of his pajamas with a sinking heart. Oh god, it just figured, he couldn't help but think in disgust as the patting failed to produce the crinkling sound of paper. 

He'd left the cheat sheet of passwords—passwords he hadn't been able to commit to memory, unlike everyone else in the house—on his bedside table. Short of waking up all of Hogwarts, he wasn't going to get back inside tonight. 

Oh, he could see the humor in it. He could almost always see the humor in the situations in which he always found himself in. He never would have made it this long if he hadn't figured out how. But on some nights…

"Neville Longbottom," he said quietly to himself, "you have got to be the biggest screw up that Gryffindor has ever seen." 

******

Sirius Black surveyed the scene before him with an ambivalent curiosity. The problem of getting into Gryffindor tower had been plaguing him for weeks, and it had seemed smart to him at least, to establish some sort of surveillance over the place. Something had to happen, ~someone~ was going to slip up somewhere. These were just kids, for god's sake. Someone was bound to get careless at some point, and he was going to be there to take advantage of that. 

As it was though, his heart had almost leapt out of his throat when he'd seen the boy emerge from the tower. He looked to be about the right height, the right size, and in the darkness of the hallway, Sirius had thought—if just for a moment—that he was looking at wild unruly dark hair. But then the boy had turned slightly, placing his face in a better light for him to see, and the man realized that this was not the boy he had thought it might be.

Disappointed, he felt his heartbeat return to normal. Of course this wasn't Potter. What had he been thinking? Harry knew that he was loose, and of course, it was inevitable that someone would inform the famous boy of just what role Black had played in Lily and James' deaths. Just the thought that it would be Harry out in the hall was enough to make him scoff at himself.

It was odd to see anyone in the hallways at this hour, even odder still that it was a lone Gryffindor. If he'd learned anything from his years at Hogwarts as a Gryffindor, it was that as a house, they banded together. Sirius had never completely understood if it was a defining element of the house, or just a phenomenon, but Gryffindors seemed to live with the need inside them to be deeply connected to other people. 

He'd had Moony, and Prongs, and yes, at one point, he'd even included Wormtail in the group of friends that held him up and kept him sane. One only had to look at what he'd become after he'd been separated from them to see how central they'd been in his life. Gryffindor just never seemed to come in anything less than pairs. 

But here was this small blonde—or at least that was Sirius' best guess in the shadows of the hallway—boy standing outside the door by himself. Siruis watched as the boy gave a small sigh, and then edged forward as the kid's face quickly turned from relief to panic. Confused now, Siruis watched as the boy patted his pockets and then turned to look forlornly at the portrait. 

"Neville Logbottom, you have got to be the biggest screw up that Gryffindor has ever seen." The boy whispered quietly before giving a self depreciating laugh and sliding down onto the cold hard floor of the hallway.

Neville Longbottom. Sirius gave his floppy ear a deft scratch as he thought on the bit of information. That was the name Harry had given the Knight Bus driver. Slightly intrigued, Sirius took a few hesitant, silent steps closer. This boy knew his godson. 

He took a closer look to see that the boy had curled himself up into as tight a ball as he possibly could with his back against the wall and his face hidden in his knees. It was a position that Sirius knew well. How many hours had he sat like that in the corner of his cell, his muscles cramping at the inactivity, in a vain attempt to stay hidden from the dementors that lazed past his cell in an endless steam of terrifying monotony? 

He was content to watch from a distance until Neville had started with those small snuffling sounds. Curious, he slunk down on all fours and moved closer, keeping his belly low to the ground. It wasn't until he heard the light click of his toenails on the stone floors of the area just in front of the portrait that he'd realized what a monumental mistake he'd just committed in the name of curiosity. 

"Who's there?" The blonde head popped up, and the tear stained eyes fell on Sirius' form across the room. Cursing his own stupidity, Sirius leapt up and gave a low menacing growl as he advanced on the boy. It may not be ethical, or even right, but he wasn't going to let anyone get in the way of his mission. Harry's safety was just too important. He'd ~promised~ James and Lily. 

And he'd be damned if he was going to go back to that hell. Or if he'd let one of those life suckers steal the soul right out of him. 

It was too early in the game for him to be caught. No one would listen, he knew. They wouldn't listen unless they had the proof right before their eyes. And unless Pettigrew up and sprouted a conscious—as well as a backbone—that wasn't going to happen. And if he'd learned anything from his incarceration and his time at Azkaban, it was that the end always seemed to justify the means. 

He advanced on the pale boy, teeth grimly bared. 

*****

Neville stared disbelievingly at the sleeping portrait of Sir Cadogan, and then gave a self-depreciating laugh. Oh god, didn't it just figure? With a soundless sigh, he slid down onto the floor in front of the portrait and pulled his knees up tight. It was particularly dark in the hallway, and had he been a better wizard, he would have simply said 'Lumnos' and the problem would have been solved. 

Silly thing about his magic though…the only predictable thing about it was the fact that it was completely unpredictable. 

Knowing his luck, he'd do something monumentally stupid which would make this little trip outside the tower pale in comparison. And while most days he could handle the laughter and the ribbing, this was not going to be one of those times. Wrapping his arms around his legs, he buried his face in his knees and willed himself not to rock back and forth. 

It wasn't so bad curling up in a ball, the floor was icy cold, and he felt justified in pulling his body in as close as it could go. But rocking? He hadn't resorted to that in years. He'd curtailed the need shortly after his grandmother had blistered his ears for it. He'd been ten at the time, and he'd just returned from visiting his parents, and well…Gram had quite forcefully declared him too old for such childish behavior. 

He couldn't stop himself from shivering though. The night air was chilly, and he'd left Trevor inside. Granted, a toad couldn't give off a lot of warmth, but it wasn't so much the body heat that Neville needed. It was the companionship. The knowledge that he wasn't truly alone.

And yes, it had occurred to him—many, many times in fact—how pathetic that was. That his closest friend, the one that he confided in, turned to for comfort, looked to for love…was a common toad. 

But even Trevor couldn't help him with this particular dilemma. No, no there were simply too many memories jumbling up his head for him to be able to coherently explain them to ~anybody~, let alone his faithful toad. 

Snape had been snapping at him all week. More so than usual, which of course, was no surprise considering what had happened during what Neville had termed 'The Boggart Incident'. Seeing Snape in Gram's hideous vulture hat had almost been worth it. Almost. 

It would have been a lot sweeter, Neville reflected, if he hadn't accidentally gotten a good look at Snape's arm earlier that week. 

He'd been afraid of Snape since his first day in Potions. The man just ~looked~ scary. And yes, Neville's poor head had shakily confused the Professor numerous times with his Great Uncle Algie. There seemed to be something in the two men that absolutely delighted in tormenting small little boys whose magic wasn't worth a hoot. 

But until that day, Neville hadn't realized just how much alike the two men really were. And the knowledge terrified him. 

Why shouldn't it?! He asked himself with as he tried to bite back a small whimper. With all the things that had happened to Harry, Ron, and Hermione; Neville was no longer under the naïve impression that Hogwarts was a safe haven. Maybe a bit safer than home, but completely safe? No, nonononononono…

_"C'mon Neville-boy, let's play a game…" _

He didn't want to play anymore games. They all hurt. Sometimes, when he was on the very verge of sleep, he'd recall the way it felt to have Great Uncle Algie's hands clasped tightly around his throat, choking off the air. Or he'd remember holding his breath painfully in his chest as the arm pushed him under the surface of the pond. Or he'd picture all the times the man had hung him outside a window, feinting as if he were going to drop the tiny boy. 

He hated those games. And sometimes, when he'd lie awake sweating and trying to remember to breathe over the sound of his own furiously beating heart, Neville would wish that the next time he went home—the next holiday—Great Uncle Algie would slip up. That his tormentor would just end all his games forever. 

And Snape…Snape was just like him. A professor here at Hogwarts was one of ~them~. 

The knowledge left a bitter taste in his mouth, and he felt his eyes sting. And what was worse to realize was that he'd ~never~ be strong enough to face them. 

He was hopeless. A lost cause. A magical disaster. A squib. 

There was a faint clicking to his left, and Neville immediately jerked his head up at the sound. Two eyes glittered in the darkness before him, and Neville felt his whole body still at the sight. "Who's there?" He managed to work out past his paralyzed tongue. A deep growl answered his question, and Neville watched with wide eyes as the huge dark beast slowly slinked into view. 

A part of him wanted to burst into hysterical giggles. 

How fitting was this? He'd been stupid enough to first sneak out of Gryffindor tower in the middle of the night. Then, he'd managed to forget his passwords. And instead of trying to remedy the situation, he'd sat down to contemplate who would have the honors of doing him in first, Great Uncle Algie or Professor Snape…Only to have both competitors ousted by some hideous death beast that had chosen this night, of all nights, to roam the halls. The beast took another step forward, a bit more aggressively this time, and Neville could see the glint of sharp fangs gleaming in the darkness. 

"You're going to kill me, aren't you?" His voice sounded almost…calm. It was almost as if he finally understood one very important thing that had escaped him for the greater portion of his life. 

There were worse things than death. 

How had he not realized that sooner? He gave the growling beast a small distracted smile. All he had to do was look at his parents to know that there were some circumstances that were worse, much worse, than a quick demise. 

The beast was inches from his own face now, he realized with a small start. The hard eyes were almost probing him, waiting for him to open his mouth and scream. The beast was waiting for Neville to give it an excuse to attack. Well, he wasn't going to scream, Neville decided. If he was going to die, he wanted it done quick. 

"If you're going to kill me, could you at least do me a favor and go for my throat?" He asked the hell beast in his most polite voice. The creature seemed momentarily stumped, if the confusion in its hard eyes was any indication. "I've been to Madame Pomfrey's a lot," Neville hastened to assure his soon-to-be-killer, "and if you're looking for a nice bloody, efficient way to kill me, that would be it." 

Neville watched the monstrous hound as it sat back on its rump and tilted its head to the side as if to contemplate the strange boy before it. 

"Here, I'll make it easy for you," Neville snapped, feeling a bit disgruntled by the beast's reaction. He lay down on the icy cold floor, placing his head near the massive paws, and exposing his neck to the huge creature. He'd much rather go quickly at the sharp teeth of a monster that everyone would ~believe~ was a monster, than to be tormented into an insane asylum by the likes of Professor Snape and Great Uncle Algie. Truth was, Neville thought as he closed his eyes and waited for the fangs to pierce his skin, he was probably already half crazy as it was. 

He almost screamed when he felt something cold and wet nudge at the side of his face. Death beast drool. The creature was going to drool all over him first. He was going to become the only ghost at Hogwarts to be covered in hell spawn slobber. Well, he supposed, it could be worse. Drool couldn't be as bad as having died in the bathroom. At least he'd have good company with Moaning Myrtle. 

The cold, wet thing nudged him again, and Neville cracked an eye to get a better look. The death beast's nose was inches from his face, sniffing him inquisitively. And as his other eye flew open Neville watched in stunned disbelief as the beast's pink tongue snuck out and gave him a tentative lick on the cheek. 

"Um, you ~are~ going to kill me, right?" He whispered at the creature as he tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. The hell beast—which once Neville took a better look at, bore a striking resemblance to a mangy stray dog—chuffed softly, and placed a paw on Neville's chest as if to say 'don't be stupid'. "Well, why the hell not?!" He demanded as he struggled to sit up. 

The dog, however, would have none of that. And without so much as a by your leave, it flopped half its body down onto of Neville's chest and closed its eyes. 

*****

TBC…

And in other news, blargy. ^-^;;; Review please! *puppy eyes* 


	2. 2

So there's over a year's difference between my writing style for this chapter and the last. I know that there's an effect, despite my attempts to hamper that. But I couldn't let this poor thing just rot here the way that it was. For better or worse, here's the second and final chapter. *shrugs* 

*****

"You're awfully big for a dog, you know." Neville sighed quietly, shifting slightly underneath the dog so that his arm wouldn't fall asleep. The creature in question raised its head at the sound of his voice and then, as if the beast had remembered just how much of a non-threat Neville posed, groaned slightly before flopping over in a different direction, thumping its tail against Neville in an idle rhythm.  

"You could use a bath, too. You stink." He added quite frankly as he hesitantly placed a hand on the matted fur. The dog certainly wasn't much to look at now that he'd actually taken the time to study it a bit closer. Even through the thick mud-coated fur, Neville could feel the stark relief of the animal's ribs, and the dog's hips were currently digging into his stomach as the animal shifted once more in an attempt to get comfortable.

It didn't seem to matter that the creature was both bony and smelly, though, he noted with a small amount of chagrin. It was still a warm body to curl up against in the frigid chill and loneliness of the hallway. "I'm sick of being scared all the time." He whispered, wrapping an arm around the animal's ribcage. He was sick of being so painfully isolated all of the time as well. 

And there was a part of him that could really identify with this poor mangy mutt. 

After all, weren't they both strays? Who would care if they just up and disappeared one day? Who would notice if they just wasted away slowly? 

No one.

That would be who noticed. The only time anyone paid him any attention was when he was messing everything up. It was only after he'd fudged a potion, or tripped over someone's shoe, or somehow incurred the wrath of one of their teachers—usually Snape—that anyone even acknowledged that he was there. 

In an odd way, screwing up all the time was an assurance of sorts that people at least knew he existed. Even if it was only so that they could yell at him over his latest infraction against the social norm. 

"It sucks to be alone, doesn't it," he heard himself say as he stroked over the gritty fur. "Gryffindor isn't supposed to be like Hufflepuff and be all about loyalty and whatnot. But it's still a given, you know. It's unspoken that Gryffindors stick together. And they do…" He trailed off, feeling vaguely guilty for not being like the other kids inside the dorms past the portrait door. It wasn't like it was their fault that he didn't know how to act like them. 

"I suppose it's my fault. I can see it in their eyes sometimes. I'm an embarrassment to the house. Can't really blame them then for not wanting to admit that I'm here and a part of their group." He sighed, and the dog gave his cheek a tentative lick, which made him smile, even as he wiped the drool off on a sleeve. "Ew."

The dog snorted in reply. 

"Yeah, yeah, so pretty much everyone has it bad. Everyone has issues, and I shouldn't let it get me down, right? I can do this." Except sometimes it just seemed so pointless, but then he supposed that was what growing up was about. It meant giving up on an idealistic vision of the world. It meant giving up on the idea that people would be willing to look past the surface to see the person inside, and that the people who were supposed to love you would always have your best interests at heart. Growing up meant giving up on the innocent belief in universal karma and that bad guys always got their due in the end while the good guys always won. 

Because the good guys didn't always win. Sometimes they ended up in the psychiatric ward of St. Mungos. 

And sometimes bad guys survived unscathed to torment the next generation. 

"Besides," he confided in the mongrel curled up against him, "Harry probably has it worse than me. At least no one expects me to save the world single-handedly." Hell, they didn't even expect him to pass his NEWTs. In fact, he'd always imagined that they would probably be somewhat relieved if he failed or had to leave. Most people seemed thankful when he left the room; conversations always flowed back into their comfortable tones when he excluded himself from them. 

It was like they were all afraid that his ineptness might be catching. As if by lowering themselves to associating with him, or befriending him, that they were committing some sort of social suicide. Which, who knew, maybe they were. He was like a plague.   

"Maybe you can understand what it's like though. To always be the one that no one is ever happy to see. You look like a stray, you look like no one gives three damns about you either. Maybe it's just that they don't like the reminder that maybe everything isn't perfect. Because if things were perfect than you'd belong to a loving family who would take care of you, and as for me…as for me, I'd just belong." The words came out more bitter than he'd intended. Sometime he had to remind himself that no one ever did it on purpose. People didn't deliberately avoid him to be cruel. He didn't merit that much attention, and any pain that he felt because of it was simply a result of their carelessness. There wasn't a malicious intent behind it. 

"In a perfect world, neither of us would be so alone." He told the dog, the pathetic excuse of a death beast, matter-of-factly. "In a perfect world, they'd believe you when you told them about the bad guys in your life and they wouldn't yell at you or mock you for making the accusation." For all that Gram claimed to love him, she'd never believed a word he'd ever said about Great Uncle Algie. She'd dismissed every incident he'd ever told her as an exaggeration, an overreaction on his part, or an outrageous lie. 

She told him it was his fault in the first place for incurring his Great Uncle's displeasure. 

Because no one was ever happy with anything that he could do. Because it was his incompetence that fueled people's contempt. Because he couldn't blame his own failings on other people. Because it was always, _always_ his fault.  

And if he told her about the mark he'd seen on Professor Snape's arm? He knew who would have more credibility in her eyes. Who would believe the words of the incompetent squib when he accused one of Hogwarts respected teachers of being one of _them_? It wasn't worth the effort to even try to explain to her that he wasn't whining. And he didn't want to hear her tell him about how she thought he was a crybaby, hurt at the smallest of insults. 

Because he knew the truth. Because he had thicker skin than most everyone else his age. He had to have, just in order to make it through some days without flinging himself out of some tower window. 

"I try not to envy them. But I do. Even if Harry doesn't have his parents either, even if he is expected to save everyone…I still envy him. And…and," he swallowed hard, before forcing his voice out past the lump in his throat, "I wish I could be like that. Like he is. Not afraid of Snape, strong enough to make people listen to him, talented enough to not get laughed at. If I could be like that for just one day, then maybe I could learn how to not be like me." 

He curled up tight against the dog then, knowing even as he did so that when the house woke up in the morning and found him like this that they wouldn't be surprised. They'd simply laugh, and he'd force himself to laugh with them. Because wasn't he such a complete and utter joke. Wasn't it funny how he forever made mistakes and couldn't remember the simplest of things. Wasn't it just hysterical how he could fail so spectacularly at everything…

*****

Sirius hesitated as the boy's breathing evened out into sleep. It wasn't that Gryffindor was a bad house. Or that it was filled with selfish, self-righteous children. To say either was to stereotype all the children inside into two-dimensional paper cut-outs who intentionally hurt those around them in the guise of helping. And in all honesty, for the majority of children just past the portrait wall, that was giving them way too much credit. 

They were just children. Just kids awkwardly learning how to maneuver the social ropes of society and taking their cues from the adults around them. He couldn't really blame them for instinctively not wanting to align themselves with the social pariah of the house. But at the same time, it was no more Neville's fault that he was the way he was than it was that Remus was a werewolf. Sometimes there were aspects about a person that they simply had no control over. 

When he was Neville's age, he had been guilty of the same crimes that the kids in the tower now were guilty of, even if he could recognize that he had no way of understanding how his actions could be conceived that way at the time. He hadn't known what it meant to be this painfully isolated when he'd been that age. He'd always been good at surrounding himself with people, even if sometimes he felt alone in their presence. 

After a few more moments of indecision, Sirius finally made his choice and switched back into human form. If he was quiet, and if he were careful, the boy would never know. He'd seen the circles under Neville's tired eyes. Hopefully the boy was so exhausted that the sleep he was in, would be fairly sound. 

Or maybe it was simply that there was something about the kid that Sirius could so strongly identify with that it overrode his extreme cautiousness. Which was strange, because Neville reminded him more of Remus than of himself, but still…Sirius' life had changed so completely in the last twelve years that it was hard to know who he was anymore. 

He did know what it meant though to be the one that everyone instinctually pulled away from. Humans were social creatures, and he was no exception. Even more so, he'd thrived on connections between friends and family and lovers before Azkaban. He knew now how painful it was to have that part of yourself lanced off. He understood how sometimes isolation was the worst punishment that could ever be meted out. 

He echoed Neville's simple wish to be someone else. Anyone else. Because being himself was a blood-letting process in which he learned over and over again the evils of his own nature, and which he began to understand why it was and why other were justified in reacting with horror whenever they caught glimpses of him. 

Because there were monsters everywhere and no one believed the beast when he accused another of being the abomination. 

Gently, he traced a hand over Neville's blond hair, pulling it back out of the boy's face. Neville shifted fitfully, and Sirius made himself sit still long enough for the boy to fall back into a deeper sleep before continuing to carefully stroke the blond hair. 

Really, what kind of a world were they a part of when it was acceptable for kids like this to grow up the way they were? In what context was it alright for Harry to grow up in a house of muggles that rebuffed him at every turn? Where was it right that a boy like Neville could suffer in silence without feeling as if there were someone he could turn to or without anyone else realizing that something was amiss? 

But then again, who had been there for him and the rest of the Marauders to turn to? The whole reason they'd become the group they'd had no one else to look to for the basic emotional things that every child desired deep down. And when those connections between the members of their close-knit group had started to disintegrate, his world—all of their worlds—had fractured into thousands of irreparable pieces. 

Each prank they'd pulled had been a reaffirmation that they indeed had a place in which they belonged, and people they belonged with. Each secret they made, and each secret they kept was a promise between them to never give up on a member and to never leave someone out to fend for themselves in the cold halls late at night. Secrets had been a pact made between friends that made them family. Remus had said so on many occasions. 

But like Neville, he no longer had friends to share secrets with, and no one to believe him should he ever try. And it was his own fault really, he'd broken the pact of his family. It was his fault that the band had disintegrated. In breaking—however unintentionally—those bonds, he'd inadvertently made certain that no one would ever believe a word he said again. 

No, the world wasn't a perfect place. He'd known that for a while now. But sometimes he wondered if it simply wasn't a perfect place because he existed in it. Who knew, maybe if he hadn't messed everything up, Harry and Neville's lives might have been vastly different from the way they'd turned out. 

He could sense that dawn was drawing near. The castle would be waking up soon, and so he switched back into his canine form. He wished there was more he could do, he wished that things were different. Hell, he fervently wished that he could be someone else too. Someone who could be believed. Someone who hadn't messed everything up and brought so much pain to so many people. Someone who could offer comfort and understanding where it was so obviously needed… 

But sometimes, some aspects of life were simply beyond his control. So he gave Neville a sloppy lick on the cheek to wake him up and then trotted away from the portrait entrance and back to his cubby hole to hide for the rest of the day. 

Some things he just couldn't change, no matter how much he might want to. 

*****

Neville flopped down in his bed the next night, listening once again to the soft noises of his dorm mates sleeping peacefully in their beds. He would be staying in the tower tonight, he decided. The well-intentioned mocking he'd gotten this morning when they'd found him waiting in his pajamas outside the portrait door was enough to deter him from attempting anything that might draw notice to him in a negative light. 

And as for the death beast who had shared the wee hours of the morning with him in the cold hallway? 

Well, he could keep that secret, would gladly keep that secret. 

In the twilight of the room, he made out the orange blur of Crookshanks' fur as the cat trotted in nonchalantly through the door and made his way over to Neville's bedside. The cat hesitated for a moment when he realized that Neville wasn't asleep, but Neville's lopsided smile and inviting pat on the bed seemed to reassure the creature. With a light bounce onto the bed, Crookshanks allowed Neville one quick stroke across his silky fur before leaning over and grabbing the slightly crumpled sheet of paper from Neville's bedside table. 

The cat's eyes met Neville's, if just for a brief moment, before he hopped off the bed and made his way out the same way he'd come in. 

Neville knew that he would only get in trouble for this later on. But then again, it was sort of inevitable that he get in trouble. What was the saying? "The road to hell was paved with good intentions"? They all meant well, his teachers, his house…the whole school. And they would do whatever they thought appropriate to "help" him understand how important it was to be like them. 

But the truth was, he wasn't like them. All the effort and all the wishing in the world wasn't going to change that. But maybe there was a bright point to living on the outside such as he did. He saw things differently than they did. He saw people differently than they did. Maybe he was different than them, and while he didn't like the isolation or the loneliness, maybe it really was better this way. 

Because, truth was, none of them would have stuck around long enough to be comforted by an escaped convict. 


End file.
